


Sherlock’s Lost Sister

by W01FS0NG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bomb, Death, Family reunion?, Gen, mentions of Moriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/W01FS0NG/pseuds/W01FS0NG
Summary: “Moriarty got into my head. He had me do it.”“Had or made?”“I’ll leave that up to you to decide.”
Kudos: 4





	Sherlock’s Lost Sister

**Author's Note:**

> When will I stop dishing out one shots that are longer than two thousand words? 
> 
> I honestly have no idea.

I sprayed a wall in yellow spray paint. The same kind of paint that was used in John Watson’s blog in the entry, The Blind Banker. I made sure of that. I spray painted the words “Down come the rain,” on one of the many walls of the hidden research facility in London. I snuck in there posing as a janitor. Then I walked out of the building by the staff exit and detonated the entire place. The words I had graffitied minutes before would be scattered, but that’s fine. I want this to be a puzzle for my dear brother. Too bad he doesn’t know of my existence.

——————

When I returned to my flat on Baker Street—222A to be exact—I turned on the news and sure enough, there was my work. The reporter told of an explosion of a research facility. It looked like everything was destroyed. Most of the people on the first floor were dead. The rest of the floors looked as though it might topple over. It was being labeled as a gas explosion mixed with a lab accident. Good. I had done my job. I’ll have to thank Moriarty for giving me the push when I finally die. I smiled to myself, knowing that Sherlock didn’t take down Moriarty’s criminal network. I was still active, but my plans didn’t involve Sherlock. At least, directly.

I suddenly remembered that I had left my laptop on this morning and forgot to plug it in. Rushing to it, I placed the charger into its slot and logged back into my screen. Luckily, the algorithm I had created was working like it was supposed to. Now the question remains on how quickly I can find my target. He wasn’t working in that building today, which was a shame.

I looked through my window and found that across the street, a police car had just parked itself there. Lestrade. He was going to pick up Sherlock and John. The man from Scotland Yard had likely found my graffiti. Graffiti from a bottle they will never find.

Next, I heard a ding. Knowing that came from my laptop, I hustled over to it. The machine had found the man I was looking for. Satisfied, turned my laptop off, and plugged it in. I had takeaway Chinese for dinner. I’ll have to check his place out tomorrow night, if possible. Yesterday was the weekend. 

There was a knock on my door. Opening it, I found it to be Mrs. Hudson. She held a container of Tupperware. It was likely filled with casserole. I loved her casserole. “Oh, afternoon, Mrs. Hudson, are the boys not eating again?” This poor woman makes food for Sherlock and John and they barely eat it. Well, John eats more regularly than Sherlock, but still.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she answered. “You wouldn’t happen to have any room in your fridge?”

“Oh, yes I do,” I say as I take the container out of her hands. “I’ll bring it back when I’m done.” We smiled at each other as she left and I closed the door. I placed the food in the fridge.

—————

The house was quiet when I slipped into it. My target had gotten home from his work dinner. When he ventured into the living room, I jumped him and knocked him out with chloroform. Before he woke up, I tied him by his feet upside down from the fan. Sitting on the couch with one of his kitchen knives in my gloved hands, I waited for his awakening.

He blinked his eyes open six minutes later. “Hello, Phillip,” I say. Recognizing my voice his eyes widened as he attempted to break free from his binding. “Don’t bother. I’ve got you on there pretty tight, and that fan of yours is pretty strong.”

“What are you doing here?” He asked me. I smirked.

“Mr. Richards, I assumed it would be quite easy for you to guess that.” I stood saying, “I’m here for my revenge.”

“Moriarty should have left you to die,” he spat at me.

I smiled kindly. “But he didn’t. When the program was finally running out of steam and you didn’t have a use for me, my dear Jimmy lent me a helping hand.” A serious look had now taken over my facial features. “Now, where’s the files that I know you kept on me.”

“What files? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” So he was playing dumb then?

I brought the knife to his eyes. “Come now, don’t be daft. Unless you want me to slit your throat.”

“Alright fine, I did have them,” his voice had started shaking. “But I destroyed them as soon as the project ended.”

Not believing him, I made a small incision with the knife on his upper arm. He yelled in pain.

“Last chance,” I told him, noticing that the blood had rushed to his head. “You don’t want to leave that poor woman you’ve been dating alone, do you? Come on, I’m a woman of my word,” I lied. He gave me no response except quivering. “Three…” I brought the knife closer to his throat. “Two…” The knife has now been pressed lightly against his skin.

“Alright fine! They’re under the kitchen sink!” I smirked devilishly.

In a sing-songy voice, I thanked him and slit his throat anyway. The blood flooded down into the bucket I placed under him. Once he was fully drained, I put the bucket near the wall. In between the paintings, I dipped my thin brush into the blood and wrote another message. The words, as intended, read out like a poem.

“Evil trickles down

Secrets screaming loud

What’s buried in the ground

Is meant to come out.”

—————

The next day, I heard my landlady knock at my door. She called out, “Sherlock’s asking for you, dear!”

Opening the door I found the tall, black-haired consulting detective. “Morning,” he greeted with a straight face. I seem to bug the hell out of him because he cannot read me whatsoever. I make him frustrated. I can tell that I remind him of someone personal. I could take a guess, after all, I did meet The Woman on a few occasions.

“‘Ello,” I said, walking back to my room and leaving the door open for him to come in. “Is this about a case?” Sherlock’s done this once before, and it involved going to a nightclub. I was to talk to people at the bar while Sherlock and John snooped around. It didn’t work out too well, as they were caught. So, I stumbled into the room acting like a drunk person. I then ended up knocking the guards and criminals out, saving the detective and his doctor.

“Yeah,” he responded in the same tone. “John’s out and he has Rosamund.”

“May I remind you that Rossie’s around a year old?” I projected. changing out of my pajamas and into a pair of jeans and a purple flannel.

“Sure,” I could tell that he was most likely studying my flat, given by the long pause. 

“Where are we going?”

“Shouldn’t it be obvious?”

“Ooo, fun.” Obviously he’s getting her to a crime scene. Okay, looks like I’ll have to push my plans to tomorrow night. “Let’s go then.”

He flagged down a cab. The case was Damn near on the other side of London. When we arrived, I saw it was the house of the man I had killed a few hours prior. Of course, I didn’t show that I recognized it. A woman in a shock blanket cried by the steps. She’s the one who must’ve found the body.

We walked in, and according to some of the officers, it wasn’t Lestrade’s case. A different detective was on it. He even stopped us at the door. “Sherlock, I presume.”

“Yes,” he responded. “I phoned Lestrade, was he unable to come?”

“Yes. And who’s this?” The detective asked.

“I’m Mia Morrison,” I gave him my fake name. Although, it technically isn’t fake, according to the complete record I created of her. Even Sherlock thinks that’s my real name.

“She’s my—not my assistant…” Sherlock tried to explain.

“I’m his carer. I care so he doesn’t have to.” Sherlock agreed and stepped into the house. The detective gave us a weird look as we went into the living room. Phillip’s body was still hung from the ceiling. My writing was also still intact. “Whoa,” I say in reaction to my work.

Sherlock immediately went to the body while I went to the writing. I couldn’t resist helping him out a little, even if it was against myself. “This writing seems sort of like the writing in that bombing you found.”

“Are you saying that the bombing and this could be linked? Why would someone… um… switch from graffiti to blood?”

“Maybe they didn’t have blood the first time and this time they wanted to be more… dramatic?” I guessed, earning a strange look from the detective. “They both send a weird message too.

“Nothing was stolen,” said the detective.

“No, yeah I think this is more of a hit than anything else,” I thought out loud. “If nothing was taken, but a message about secrets was written on the wall of the victim’s blood, wouldn’t you call that a hit?”

“Even if it were, there’s nothing in the records about him being tied to any sort of criminal… well, anything. The writing doesn’t give us much either.”

Sherlock finally looked at the stanza written on the wall and said, “Oh, I think it tells us plenty.” He walked over the writing and started deducing out loud. “The letters are average-sized, signifying that the killer is adaptable. Some of the letters are rounded while the others are pointed, which could mean that they’re also creative, and curious by nature. There’s wide spacing, signifying that they enjoy their freedom, and don’t like to be in large crowds. The writing also slants to the left a bit, so they could be left-handed. The e’s are widely looped, so they’re open-minded. The dot of the i is directly over the line, signifying that they are detail-oriented and organized. Possibly empathetic. The line that crosses the t is in the middle and long, which tells me that they’re confident and determined. The o’s are closed, so they might be a private type of person. The speed in which they wrote this was slow, again showing that they are organized. Exactly like the message at the bombing.”

Sherlock looked at me to see if I got any of that. “So, they’re adaptable, organized, curious, creative, enjoy their freedom, confident, determined, and private?” I stared at the writing and walked towards it with my right hand pointing at it. “And possibly around my height?” I looked at him unsure.

“Most likely.”

“As cool as that is,” the detective interjected. “There are loads of people with those traits.”

“If they went from bombing to murder, there must have been a reason,” Sherlock thought out loud. He looked to be going through his mind palace.

Wanting to interview the woman outside, I stepped away from the writing. “Is the woman who found the body still here?” I asked no one in particular.

“She’s outside ma’am,” one of the officers said. I smiled to her as a response

“Time to care,” I muttered under my breath.

I found the woman standing by the steps and holding onto a blanket draped over her shoulders. “Are you the one who discovered the body?” I asked her gently.

“Yes,” she sounded terrified. “I don’t know who would do this. Phillip’s a nice psychiatrist.”

“If I may ask, what was your relationship with him?” I knew the answer already, I just wanted to see what she’d say.

“I’m his—was his girlfriend.” She looked as if she was about to cry. I gave her a sympathetic look. By the looks of things, their relationship was becoming serious.

“You can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt your boyfriend?”

“No,” she sobbed.

The door opened and Sherlock called my name. I knew I had to wrap this up. “Our condolences, Ms…?”

“Hurst.”

“Sorry again, Ms. Hurst,” I said as I walked away and joined Sherlock. “Anything of note discussed while I interviewed the girlfriend?”

“You were right,” he told me as he flagged down a cab.

“About?” I glanced at him.

“The handwriting was the same as the message in the bombing.”

“Huh.”

“I know how I could tell, but how could you?” A taxi finally stopped for us. Sherlock opened the door and allowed me to go in first.

“Well, for starters, the a’s looked like they would on a computer and not in regular handwriting. There’s not a lot of people who use that particular styling.”

The consulting detective told the cabbie to head to Baker Street. 

“Anything else interesting?” I asked him. “I saw you go back into your mind palace.”

“It’s obvious that Omega is hiding something. Whoever did the bombing and the killing had to have either been directly tied to those secrets, or knew someone who was.” Omega Incorporated is the name of the company that stole my life. But I’m not going to tell Sherlock that. It would ruin my plans.

The rest of the cab ride was silent. When I didn’t get out, Sherlock looked at me puzzlingly. “I still have a job, Y’know Sherlock.” The high functioning sociopath frowned as I told him the address of my workplace.

—————

I was now home and it was seven in the evening. After watching Sherlock and John exit the cab, I put the memory stick in my laptop and downloaded the files.

“Yep,” I said aloud. “They’re all right here.” Every one of my therapy sessions with him. Each of the times I faked having a mental illness. Of course, those were only out of spite. I didn’t like Phillip. I had a piece of what was missing. The puzzle I was creating for Sherlock was slowly being put into place. I still needed a few more pieces though. The algorithm was finding the other people I needed to kill. I knew she would take less effort than Phillip.

—————

Two days later, the news announced a possible follow up to the bombing I committed. They linked it with my killing of Phillip Richards. Lestrade has told London that the same handwriting that was found in the bombing was found in the home. He had also called both crimes an act of revenge.

I turned the telly off when I heard my computer beep again. I knew then, that she was found.

—————

I took a cab to her flat and picked the lock. She must have known someone was trying to break in because she stood in front of me with a gun in her hands.

“Since when did you own a gun?” I asked her. Then I realized she must have gotten it when she was fired. “Never mind. Stupid question. Don’t answer that.”

Her eyes squinted as if trying to remember me. After all, the last time she saw me, I was ten. She sighed. “You could have just knocked,” she told me, apparently relieved at my appearance. The woman lowered her gun.

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t have been fun,” I joked. A wedding ring could be seen on her finger. I smiled.

“So, the explosion and Phillip’s murder, was you?” Our eyes locked for a moment.

“You always were quicker than Richards. I always hated them for replacing you.” Although it wasn’t a mystery as to why she was fired. The overseer raped her and when she threatened to take him to court, she was fired.

“Yes, well… I assume you're here for your files.” She set the gun down on the coffee table.

“Of course.”

“Wait here.” Ms.—no, Mrs. Morrison went to what I assumed was her bedroom and came back with a memory stick. Her flat was nice. I could see pictures of her family and other loved ones on shelves and the walls. “Here’s all I have on you.”

“Thank you,” I turned to leave, but she stopped me with her words.

“Raise all hell, won’t you?” She said to me.

“Morrison, what do you think I’ve been doing all this time? Good night.” I then left her flat. With my happier therapy sessions in hand, I went back to flat on Baker Street.

—————

With the second piece loaded onto my computer, I could rest for the day, but I didn’t want it to be.

Noticing that I still had Mrs. Hudson’s Tupperware from a few nights ago, I took it off the drying rack and walked over to 221B. Coincidentally, Sherlock and John have just arrived home from a cab. 

“Oh, Mia,” John recognized. “Hey.” I should probably note that I moved into 222A when Sherlock was still considered a dead man. John tried to ask me out, but I friend-zoned him. I still come around just to hang out and to keep Mrs. Hudson from throwing away food that neither of them ends up eating. As well as the occasional cases

“Hey John, Sherlock,” I greeted. 

“Mia,” Sherlock acknowledged. I smiled slightly.

Sherlock unlocked the door and I headed straight towards Hudson’s flat. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ve brought your Tupperware,” I called from the hall.

She came down from Sherlock’s flat and said, “Thank you, dear. Would you like a cuppa?”

“Oh, no thanks, ma’am. I’ve got the kettle going back in my flat,” I lied. I handed her the plastic container and was off. 

“I’ll let you know when I make another casserole,” she projected as I left.

“Please do!” I called as I went out the door. My flat was just across the street from Sherlock’s.

—————

Three days later, I managed to find one of the neurologists. He was one of the top ones working in the project. I knew he would hit the company the hardest and I knew he was the one who had most of my data. He held the final piece of my puzzle.

I took a cab to his house and did him up like I Phillip. When he awoke I gave him the same drill, asking where the files were. “You’ll never find them,” he said smugly. “I destroyed the evidence.” The smugness was fake.

“No, you didn’t,” I told him. “We all know that workers are required to keep the files for research purposes.

“What makes you say that?”

“Don’t be daft,” I leaned closer to him. “Your pupils dilated.” He swallowed.

“I won’t tell you.”

“As expected,” I mutter before moving the weapon closer to his throat. “You really should tell me, otherwise I might have to tell your expecting wife what you’ve been doing.”

He kept silent, so I pressed the knife into his throat. A little trickle of blood splattered on the bucket below him. “Come on, don’t disappoint me. Tell me where it is, and I just might let you dangle there.” The idiot spat in my face.

With annoyance, I wiped it off and said, “Goodbye.” My hand almost moved on its own, slicing open his throat.

“N-“ his words turned into gargles. With his blood, I wrote on the wall, “Started down this one-way track. There's no turning back. I'm on the warpath.”

Now it was time to look for his notes and the footage he took of me. “You’re not a sink or a bedroom kind of person,” I thought out loud. “No, I think you’re a desk person.”

I wandered over to his study and rummaged around for a memory stick. After finding his gun, I found the small piece of tech and went on my merry way.

As I walked down the street, trying to find a cab, I saw Sherlock and John practically hop out of one and burst into the flat I had just infiltrated. I smiled as I went home.

—————

A day after that, I bought a new laptop. This new laptop would be the storyteller, well, if they don’t catch me, that is. I once told Moriarty that the company could burn at my hands and I didn’t care what happened to me.

Well, anyway, now that I’m back in my flat I can get down to business. I wiped the computer clean of almost every app pre-installed and downloaded every file from the memory sticks onto the computer. I entitled the files, Play Me, Play Me Too, and Read Me. Those were the only files. They took up way too much space. 

I didn’t resist the urge to look over my files. Mrs. Morrison was much kinder, and we did simpler activities. I knew that I was being watched and studied since I was seven, even though I was practically raised in that place. With Morrison, it was all learning, and fun and games. Through her, I found that I had an IQ with a range between 185 and 200. Then they got rid of her. By the state of the new guy, I deduced that he wasn’t happy about this. Neither was I, frankly. I also deduced from the Overseer when he introduced the new guy that he and Mrs. Morrison had a domestic. A serious one at that. Definitely not one to discuss in front of a ten-year-old. He also seemed highly stressed. I remember asking him if she was raped or sexually abused by him. The overseer responded by asking what both meant. I responded correctly.

I didn’t much like the new guy, Phillip Richards. During our sessions, I would always try to keep him dangerously on his toes by pretending to have a different mental disorder until he figured each one out. I was mighty stressful for him. Sometimes, an act would last one week, sometimes five. It varied from one illness to the other.

It wasn’t until I was fourteen when they started putting me in these scenarios. Dangerous ones. Each one was different. I remember the first one well. I was locked in a tank slowly filling up with water. When I awoke, the water was already pretty high. Knowing that this was a test, I searched for the pump that put the water in and plugged it with my sweatshirt. Then I broke the glass by repeatedly kicking it.

By the time I was eighteen, some of the members of MI6 were using me to break criminals that they caught and couldn’t crack themselves. There was this little game that I called a gamble. It was a small guillotine that could only cut fingers. It wasn’t a giant machine, just a small one that had three holes at the bottom. A hole for my finger, a hole for the criminal’s and a hole for the agent’s I’d ask to join us. The blade was suspended by a bunch of strings that we would cut until one of them was the one that released the blade. It was always rearranged after every time I used it so I never knew which was the exact string to cut. To rile them up, I would always act like a psychotic compulsive gambler. They always cracked just before the blade fell. I always enjoyed the look on their faces when the blade dropped and nothing happened. 

I was nineteen when the program ended. Moriarty saved me, and I guess I have him to blame or thank for my violent plan.

I was brought out of memory lane when the algorithm on my old computer had dinged again. It had found my mantlepiece. Think I’ll go over there tomorrow.

Yeah.

—————

Knowing that Sherlock and John were most likely on to me already, I didn’t have much time to spar. The Overseer lived in Belgravia. I’d have to flag down a cabbie to take me.

When I got there, the door was slightly open. Intentional. I pushed it open and found no one to greet me. Slightly disappointed, I closed and locked the door behind me. 

First I went all around the house and found eight security cameras just on the first floor. After disposing of them in the neighbor’s trash, I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife.

Deducing that he was most likely in his bedroom, I went there. Sure enough, he sat on the chair, waiting for me. “Ah,” he said. “Finally you’ve come.”

“Yes,” I replied, stepping closer to him. I set my bag down on his bed. “Did you think I’d be back to haunt you? Or are there other vaguely illegal projects that you’ve carried out?”

“I don’t think Sherlock and Mycroft would be proud of you, Ceres, Eurus, maybe.”

“And yet those names mean close to nothing to me,” I told him. 

“Oh, but you see they mean a lot more to you then you want to believe. I’ve already told you and proved your lineage.”

I stared at him with a blank expression. “Yes. And now it’s time for you to die.” With nothing left to say, I slit his throat.

Knowing that I didn’t have all that much time left now, I set up the computer in his study. Then I put myself on the sofa right by the door.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade came inside. They were followed by Donavan and Anderson.

“Mia?” John recognized. “Mia, what are you doing here? Is the killer here?” 

I just smiled and turned my head towards him before saying, “I’m the killer John, and there’s a corpse upstairs.”

“Bloody hell,” John and Anderson went to check it out. Their footsteps were heavy against the wood.

I cranked my neck to follow their figures up the steps. “And don’t forget about the computer! It’s in the study!” I shouted after them. 

Turning my face, I saw Sherlock standing right in front of me. He leaned closer, asking, “Why?”

“That wouldn’t be much fun if I told you straight away, now would it?” I smiled. The Detective Inspector forced me off the couch and put me in handcuffs. We started walking until I stopped. Lestrade did as well. “Oh, and um, you might want to ask mum and dad about the stillbirth. And do send for Mycroft.” He looked at me as if I was the strangest person in the world.

—————

I was forced into a police vehicle and put in one of those questioning rooms. Not long after, Sherlock appeared. I waved to the people I knew were watching me on the other side of the mirror.

“You have been a thorn in my side for quite a while,” Sherlock told me with a slight scowl. “I want to know why.”

“Oh, you poor man,” I taunted with a slight smile. “Did you ask mummy and daddy as I’d asked?” He was silent, still giving me that strange look.

“You’re not actually suggesting-“

I cut him off. “Well did you at least send for Mycroft?” 

“Would he know?” I frowned. He hadn’t.

I smiled, saying, “Spoilers,” In a sing-songy voice. I then looked over at the large notepad and pen that sat near us. “What’s this for?”

“I think you know that already.”

I smile as I reach for the items and start writing things down. Not wanting him to see, I adjust my seating position so that the notepad lay on my knees as I wrote on it. I wrote something meaningless, yet meaning full. The lyrics to Crazy, by Gnarls Barkley. I only stopped at the second chorus. We spoke as I wrote. Sherlock squinted his eyes as he saw me writing with my right hand.

“Oh, come on Sherlock, I’m ambidextrous. Have you seen what’s on there?” I broke the silence. “All the foreign language lessons, all the riddles, and puzzles, and mind games? Those were with my first Therapist. They fired her when I was ten or so. She and the overseer had a domestic. A large one at that. She was fired for it.”

“And the other video files?”

I looked at him and frowned. “You haven’t looked at it, have you?” We stared at each other for a minute. He soon realized that I wouldn’t be speaking to him again until he sees the files.

Once I was finished writing the lyrics down, I wrote, “I confess to the bombing of Omega Incorporated, the murder of Phillip Andrews, and the murder of Scott McLaughlen.”

Noticing that I was done writing, he motioned for me to give him the notepad. When I did, I noticed his brows creased. “Songs are important, Sherlock,” I told him. “Everything I’ve written on that is lyrics to a song that has meaning to my situation.” I had a feeling he already knew this.

He then left.

—————

When he came back, the door slammed shut. “According to the files your real name is Ceres?” I nodded. “What secrets did you find out?” Sherlock asked me when he came back in.

I smiled knowing that he looked at the files. I told him, “Oh no, those are government secrets. I’d only be allowed to discuss this with Mycroft.”

“I see.” I could tell that something was eating at him. “Why do you say that we’re related?” He asked with a straight face. I pouted, slightly.

“According to their data, I am your biological younger sister by about six years. They've been watching all us Holmes’ since Mycroft proved himself to be quite the genius and wanted to keep me all to themselves. All they had to do was steal me away by claiming that,” In a mock dramatic voice I said, “Something’s wrong with the baby!” My voice became regular as I said, “And they whisked me away from you, and Mycroft… and Eurus. They stole away my chance at having anything close to a normal life.” He gave no reaction. Just a blank stare. “If you don’t believe me, I will gladly give you a sample of my DNA for testing.”

“Hmm, later, there’s something nagging at me. Why did you kill them?”

“Well,” I giggled. “Here’s the interesting part. The program ended when I was nineteen. I’m twenty-seven now. Anyway, they were going to let me rot until a man by the name of Jim Moriarty came along.” Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly. “He took me in until a year or so before his death. I remember telling him that I wanted the people who raised me in a white psych room to burn. I didn’t and I still don’t care what happens to me. I couldn’t let them do this to another child. Jimmy gave me the touch I needed.”

“I see,” said my older brother. He leaned closer and asked in an angered voice. “And did it calm all the rage?”

“Yes,” I muttered. It was barely above a whisper. He leaned back into his chair with his hands making a triangle. I then turned to the glass and asked, “Did you get that?”

As the door opened, both our heads turned to see Lestrade. He called Sherlock out of the room.

—————

An hour later, both Holmes boys came into the room. John trailed in behind. “Ceres, dear, did you have to kill them?” Was the man of the government’s opening line.

“Moriarty got inside my head. He had me do it,” I told him. Sherlock gave both of us a weird look. I turned to him and asked, “Really, Sherlock, did you honestly think Mycroft wouldn’t at least know about me? He technically is the British Government so I wouldn’t be surprised. I have aided in breaking down criminals for MI6.” I then turned to Mycroft. 

“Had? Or made?” The oldest Holmes asked as he sat down in the chair opposite me. I assumed he meant my comment about Moriarty.

I hesitated before responding, “I’ll leave that up to you to decide, brother mine.”

“Ceres, you botched an MI6 investigation.”

“What can I say? My impulse control was slipping. Besides, maybe you should have gotten to me instead of letting Moriarty take me.”

“I’m sorry, what?!” John questioned. I sighed.

“Haven’t you been listening? I told you that they loaned me out to the government to crack people they couldn’t. By that time, our dear older brother already had a seat in the government. I met him once.”

“I only knew you by your first name. By the time I had figured out that you were the stillborn child of our parents, the program had ended and Moriarty had whisked you away out of my reaches.”

“Humph,” I say as I lean back into my chair with my arms crossed. It was silent for a small moment. “I didn’t kill everyone who had the files, by the way. But you don’t get to know who.”

“You didn’t write the last verses of the song,” John spoke up. “On the notepad.”

“That was intentional. I have no heroes, and all that needed to be said was already stated.”

“What about Eurus?” Sherlock asked me. His palms rested openly on the table as he peered into my eyes, wanting answers.

“What about our poor sister?” I counter. “Oh, you want to know how I know about her? It’s simple really. The Overseer, whom you know as Scott McLaughlen, was able to get his paws on her files and gave them to me. I managed to visit her once or twice…” I looked away from them. “or five times.” 

“Five-“ Mycroft didn’t finish his sentence. He was furious. “How did this slip my notice?”

“How indeed?” I wondered aloud. The three men peered at me half as if I was crazy, and half as if I had the answer. “And why would you think I had the answer? The only one who did is dead… although that’s not exactly true. I know someone you could ask, who isn’t Eurus. She’s amazingly manipulative, our sister.”

“Why do I get the feeling you won’t tell us who they are?” Mycroft questioned.

“No, I intend to… but…”

“But?”

“I know where this is going. After everything, you’re going to put me in a cell in Sherrinford.” I paused and was met with silence. “I’d love to be near our sister, but believe me when I say _I cannot_ be in that type of environment again. I’ve only been living in it for nineteen years. Putting me back there will only bring back the pain, and the rage.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“You're looking for a man named Noah Schmidt.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft got out of the seat.

Before any of them got out of the room, I muttered, “Two by two, hands of blue.” They looked back at me confused. I repeated myself. “Two by two, hands of blue.” I looked at them as if I expected them to get it. I was giving them a clue. The man they’re looking for wears blue lab gloves and is always accompanied by a lackey with the same gloves.

A few minutes later, Donovan entered the room and uncuffed me. “Let’s go,” she ordered in a dull way. The D.I. led me to one of the holding cells and put me there. “Seems like you’ll be spending the day in here.”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Did you, by any chance, happen to look at any of the files?”

“Yes. Why?” she questioned me as she stepped out of the cell and locked me in.

“No reason at all.”

She gave me a lowkey suspicious look before closing leaving the cell door.

—————

Twelve hours later, I was let out of the cell. Lestrade let me out. My brothers escorted me out. Silently, we went into a car. 

“We tracked down Noah Schmidt,” said Mycroft, briefly looking at his phone before placing it back in his pocket.

“And?” I questioned.

“He’s been fired. Nice hint by the way.” I smiled slightly, remembering the nonsense I spouted about blue hands.

“Where’s John?” 

“Back at the flat,” Sherlock answers me. I gave him no response.

Before anything else could be said to me, I told them, “I want to see Eurus.” They looked at me as if I was crazy.

“No,” said Mycroft, firmly.

“Yes,” I countered. “We genuinely are friends. If you are sending me where I think you are, then I shall not see her for quite some time.”

”She hasn’t spoken since...” Sherlock trailed off.

”I assure you, she will with me.”

“Fine,” our older brother allowed. “Oh, and um, I changed your name to Mia Ceres Morrison.” That statement tore me from my window. 

My eyes squinted with suspicion. “Why?”

“Because it’s your name.”

—————

When we got there, we were informed that our parents were already visiting. My eyes widened at the realization that I might have to interact with them. What would I even say? Does that even really matter?

The Holmes boys watched from the CCTV room as I entered a large room with a ridiculously high ceiling and a glass box filled with a genius. Two older people sat in chairs trying to have a pleasant conversation with her. I assumed them to be her parents. Our parents. She didn’t say a word to them.

“Ceres,” Eurus noticed me. Her word prompted the older couple to look behind them. 

“Oh,” I acted sheepish, stopping in my tracks. “I’m terribly sorry, have I interrupted?” I asked.

“No, dear,” mother stated. She seemed like she struggled to grasp a concept. “Tell me… how do you know Eurus?”

“She’s my-“ Eurus stopped herself, looking into my cold eyes. “She’s a friend.” I almost breathed a sigh of relief. I knew that she knew what I know, and peculiarly she chose to keep it hidden. She then added, with little emotion, “She used to come visit me.”

“Hello Eurus,” I smiled, walking towards the glass cage. I gestured to the old couple. “Are these your folks?”

“...Yes.”

“I’m Mia Morrison,” I introduced myself, shaking the woman’s hand. “Ceres is my middle name, if you were wondering why she called me that.” Staring into Mrs. Holmes' eyes, I found sadness. “Are you alright?”

“Quite, dear,” Mrs. Holmes stated. “I’m sorry, I just… I intended to name my child that.”

My gaze softened, finally knowing from mother that the DNA showed on the computers were not faked. They soon left, leaving myself and Eurus.

“How do you like our parents?” The genius behind the glass questioned me. She stepped closer as I sat on the bench.

“They seem sweet,” I told her as I sat hunched over. “But you don’t hold any emotion to them, do you?”

She shrugged with a slight frown and paced a bit. “None at all… you know, Moriarty mentioned you when I spoke to him. We agreed that you would never be involved in his schemes for Sherlock.” Her feet stopped

“I noticed.” I studied the ground briefly before looking back up. “How did the final problem go, by the way?”

“you should know, since you were fiddling with the security cameras.” This is true. I did hack into Sherrinford to watch them. Eurus told me it was part of her experiment.

“Look, the reason I’m visiting-“

“Is to say goodbye?” She stares at me with a blank expression.

“Yes. I’ll be out of the country for quite some time.”

“I see. Did your plan work?”

“Yes, it did, and now I must leave the country in exile as my punishment.”

“You’ll be back,” she assured me. 

“I’m sure I will.” I soon got up from the bench and left.

—————

They stood in almost a line before a private jet. Mycroft handed me a Blackberry. “If you are ever needed again, I’ll call you on this.” Wordlessly, I pocketed the device. 

I then moved to Sherlock and John. “Sherlock, John. This is goodbye.”

“Yes, it appears to be so,” John commented. I smiled slightly and gave a half hearted salute before boarding the plane.

A few minutes later, the private jet took off. I was on my way into the rest of the world. Does it matter that I don’t know where I’m being exiled to? Oh well, I’ll find out when we get there. I wonder if it will be Spain. Doubt it though. I wonder if I could get the younger Moriarty to pick me up. Maybe Sebastian Moran would be more reliable. I guess I’ll see when we get there.


End file.
